ANNIE:Did he catch you? Because if you’re in a tree and Hot Ranger is on the ground, there is only one way that ends.
ME:Yes. He caught me. It was efficient.
The screen exploded. I had to scroll just to keep up.
RAYANN:He caught you? Like, actually caught your entire person? That’s physical trust under stress. That’s a romance novel happening in real time.
EMME:I KNEW IT. This is officially romantic.
BRYNN:For fuck's sake, ladies. She almost DIED.
EMME:Are you actually okay? Like, "heart-rate-normal" okay, or "I’m-about-to-do-something-reckless" okay?
ME:I’m fine. But he has a "coordinated re-entry" time, and I’m ending this conversation now.
BRYNN:"Coordinated re-entry." My god, you’re even starting to talk like him. Fine, go. But if you’re planning on anymore "vertical decision-making" tonight, at least send a photo of the ranger first. For safety.
ANNIE:And the warthog. I want to see what caused the lapse in logic.
RAYANN:Keep your phone on. Call me if the "containment" fails.
I closed the app. The silence of the suite rushed back in, broken only by the faint click of the lantern and the insects tuning up outside.
The wine still sat untouched on the table. I picked it up and swallowed it in three hard pulls, because apparently that was the level of composure available to me now.
The shower came next. Fast. Hot. Functional, until my hand slid between my thighs and proved function had left the chat the second Nick saiddinner. Two minutes with my vibrator should have taken the edge off.
It did not.
Excellent. A medical mystery.
I dried off, moved to the wardrobe, and pulled out the dark silk shift.
Armor, but with a different set of teeth. If Nick expected a surrender tonight, he was working from a very limited perspective.
The knock on the frame came once.
I opened the canvas entry. Nick stood braced against the timber post, a paper bag in one hand fragrant with rosemary, garlic, and cracked pepper, a bottle of wine tucked under his other arm. He’d cleaned up, which somehow made the dust on his boots more noticable. Olive shirt, sleeves rolled, top button undone. Dark field trousers riding his hips with the kind of casual injustice that should have required a permit. Not formal. Worse. Intentional.
“You’re early.”
“No, I’m not.”
He stepped inside, and the air tightened. He didn’t ask where anything was. He crossed to the suite’s small service counter like he’d been there before and set down the bag. Out came heirloom carrots, fingerling potatoes, and two vacuum-sealed Wagyu filets. Then his attention shifted to the covered deck, where a compact gas grill waited in the shadows.
“You brought provisions,” I said.
“Dinner,” he corrected.
“Wine?” he asked, already opening a bottle from a local vineyard. He didn’t wait for an answer. He poured a glass and slid it across the island toward me.
Nothing about him rushed. Nothing about him fumbled. He began prepping the carrots, the knife moving through the roots in smooth, practiced strokes that made competence look unfairly attractive.
“Who taught you that?” I asked.
The knife paused against the cutting board. His expression didn’t change, but something behind it locked into place.
“My father was a career diplomat,” he said, the knife moving with terrifying efficiency. “He believed that if you couldn't hold a conversation in three languages and prep a four-course meal without breaking a sweat, you weren't fit for the room. The finessing came later—mostly in the UK, during the breaks from boarding school.”
